


Coming Down

by HimereCalliope



Category: Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22599091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimereCalliope/pseuds/HimereCalliope
Summary: “Come in,” he says, and David does, and then locks the door behind him.For the promptsangsty sexandsex of the 'this doesn't mean anything (except it totally does)' variety.
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 15
Kudos: 109
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Coming Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parcequelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/gifts).



> Happy Chocolate Box Day, parcequelle! I was a pleasure to be matched with you; you have the most delightfully fun likes. I hope you'll enjoy where I went with them! 
> 
> **A/N:** This is set a bit in the future, and/or in a slightly alternate universe – you decide. Everything about this is completely made up.

The first few minutes after the show comes down are always a trip. All the adrenaline still buzzing through his system, heightening everything, while at the same time reality doesn’t feel quite real. Curtain call helps the audience back out of the fictional world, but the actors, that’s a different beast. On a good day, it’s just another part to the performance. On a bad one, his body moves through it on muscle memory alone, his mind still someone else’s. And then he’s off the stage and under the faultily flickering neon lights of the cramped backstage passages, and his thoughts aren’t his own. 

Everyone has their own ritual for coming back to themselves after the end of a performance. For Michael, the first thing that needs to go is the make-up. It’s mainly practical – he’ll end up somehow getting it on everything otherwise – but also, conveniently, the easiest part of a character to start stripping away. Mechanical, no thought needed. There’s a stash of reliable make-up wipes in his dressing room, and they’re what he reaches for now, a routine motion. There’s also a sink in the corner, next to the small cot – ah, the benefits of top billing – but a proper wash comes later, once he’s out of costume. Which is the next part. 

He undoes the buttons slowly, because his hands are still shaking, and because doing it slowly forces him to focus on the here and now, and not on the lonely rage that’s not actually his roiling in his chest. That far too familiar pounding in his ears, the hot tension in his muscles. The way they ache to do something, to grab, to pull, to punch someone. To force them – all of _them_ , these far too impactful fictional characters – to stop rejecting him, to stop _always_ rejecting him. The grinding frustration when all he can do is meticulously strip off each layer of the costume and carefully hang it on the rack. It seeths under his skin. That’s the most difficult part to shake, recently. It has a treacherous way of sticking to him. Except when– 

There’s a knock on his door, instantly recognized. 

Except when _that_ happens. Once every few nights, these days. Whenever David is having difficulties, too. 

Michael’s only wearing boxers now, but they’re his own, so that will do. 

“Come in,” he says, and David does, and then locks the door behind him. 

He’s still in costume, his street clothes over his arm. _Keep the costumes out of it_ is their single non-unspoken rule, but that, too, is purely practical. Can’t damage them. This just means that Michael will get to exercise his patience some more by stripping David, too. In just a moment. Right now… 

For now David lays his clothes over the back of one of the chairs and then stalks towards Michael. Unequivocally _stalks_ , giving off more than a faint suggestion of murderous intent. That’s why he’s here. 

He doesn’t stop until he’s chest to chest with Michael, and then only to lock eyes, make it very clear how he wants this to go. Not that he needs to. Not that they haven’t performed this little choreography often enough by now to know the paces by heart. 

Michael starts on the buttons of David’s shirt while David closes his eyes and just breathes. Steadily, not in anything like homicidal fury, but also very carefully controlled. Deliberate. 

He keeps breathing as Michael finishes with the buttons, and moves on to tugging the hem of his t-shirt out of his trousers. Or rather, not-his t-shirt and not-his trousers. He deigns to help pull both off, and breathes a little more quickly as he places them on a hanger. And he breathes just a bit less steadily when Michael reaches for his belt, and then his zipper. 

He’s half hard already, and hisses slightly as Michael peels the trousers off him and tugs them down. The tight pants underneath aren’t technically part of the costume, but they’re what David wears with it, and not what he wears home, so they always go, too. Michael slips his thumbs under the waistband, the first touch of skin tonight, hot and slightly sweaty, and David makes a sound just a bit like a growl. He holds very still and breathes loudly as Michael slips the pants down, but has to move to kick off his shoes and step out of his pooled trousers. To the vicious feelings in Michael’s head that feels like a victory. 

That leaves Michael in his boxers, David completely naked, and both of them coiled nearly too tightly to move. Staring each other in the eye. _Come get me then,_ Michael thinks, _if that’s what you want_ , and tries not to think about how much of that thought might or might not be his own. 

David glares at him, not exactly threateningly, but also not _not_. Then he moves, quick as a well-targeted strike. Shoves Michael’s boxers down, licks his palm, and wraps his hand around Michael with an icy determination in his eyes. He’s out to destroy, or this part of him is, and he will not stop until it’s satisfied. Michael shudders, and to cover it, does the same. It’s well choreographed at this point, like a stage fight minus the blunt weapons. 

Michael knows well, by this point, just what David likes. Or what his body likes, at least. What speed, how much friction, and when. He could get him off in under three minutes, he thinks. He’d like to try, sometime. A nice little exercise in ego stroking. But that’s not what this is. Not what they need, here, and more to the point, not what would satisfy the snarl still trapped in the back of his throat. 

He grips David’s cock just a bit too hard, and moves his hand just a bit too slowly. Not so much a tease as a taunt, verging on an insult. Some revenge for what he – not actually he – has been receiving all night. In return, David sets exactly the perfect rhythm and then holds his fist just a bit too loose, calculated perfectly to drive Michael out of his mind. Which is, of course, the point of this. This half-game, half-battle of theirs. Drive it up instead of holding it back. Burn it out instead of trying to cool it down. 

This is a contest of willpower, and tonight, right now, he is not going to be the one who loses. It’s like an itch all over and under his skin, this need, this frustratedly craving desire, but stronger than that, far more strongly than that, he wants David to be the one who cracks. So he digs his heels in, holds out, doesn’t let himself thrust in chase of something he won’t get anyway, and slows down even more. Savagely. Viciously. Until David has to abandon that infuriating control, has to buck forward or use his own hand or–

With a snarl that could be straight from their final, ferocious confrontation before the curtain drops , David snaps, yanks Michael’s hand away, grabs him by the hips and _shoves_ until Michael’s back hits the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He doesn’t wait, not for Michael to get his breath back and not for anything else, pushing up against him, chest to chest, cock to cock, grinding. 

_Oh_ it feels good. The sing in his back, the pressure from the front, the visceral physicality of it all. To be thrusting, humping, _fucking_ like this, with his whole body, all his muscles finally in action, searing with it, burning gloriously deep under his skin. To be grabbing and yanking and pressing into David’s skin, to be taking what he wants, and to have something that’s wanted in return. The sheer physical satisfaction of _finally_. 

But also, on a level he tries his best not to focus on, getting David like this. Just as desperate, just as crazed, frantically willing and wildly eager up against him. There with him, and only him. Angry and impotent and at the edge of his own control, a million miles from _nice_ in a way David wouldn’t, doesn’t ever want anyone to see. That’s the David he gets. The one who smells like sweat and soap and stage make-up, the one with rigidly taut muscles and fevered, slick skin, the one who can’t and won’t go home like this. The version of him that David will never ever make anyone else deal with, he lets Michael take on. It’s a privilege he guards jealously, in the privacy of his own mind. This is _his_ David, and that… burns in his chest and leads into a whole host of his own issues that _he_ tries not to make anyone else deal with. But always, in the moment, it feels so good. ´

In fact, it’s inching ever closer towards fantastic as pure sensation takes over his brain. It’s heat and friction and movement, and not much else. It’s amazing what the body can do. Complex emotions, thoughts, feelings all melt away into a pool of _this, yes, good_ and _just like that_ and then just _more, more, more_. 

But it’s not enough, like this. It’s good, very good, but not fast enough, not tight enough, not _there_ enough; not for him, and not for David, either, if he’s any judge of his frustrated, keening panting. And after all these months, he likes to think he is. David bucks, arrhythmically and increasingly desperately, no trace of that cold control left, all physical need and motion. And all _David_ , full of wild frustration, yes, but no cruelty or violence. 

He’s not just needy; he’s ready. They both are. So Michael slides a hand between their bodies and wraps it around both of them, and they bite off simultaneous groans. Michael starts moving, jerking them off, clutching at David with his free hand, can’t help gasping into his neck. David’s hand joins his, increases their speed, and then all he can think is _more, more, more more more_ for what feels like a fractured eternity before he has to muffle a howl against David’s skin as he comes, hard, and is lost in _oh yes, yes, yes_ as he feels David jerk and then shudder through his own climax, still pressed so tight against him. 

They stay like that a moment, panting, hanging on to each other. Readjusting to reality. It’s a neat trick, Michael thinks, the way a good orgasm can work like a reset button for the brain and body. Very useful. 

But risky, too, The things all that oxytocin can do to you. Dangerous, he thinks, as David runs a gentle hand down his back. 

David is all himself again, soft and familiar and very nice, and entirely too welcome, as far as the affective parts of Michael are concerned. It’s been a trend. Every time they do this, he finds himself wanting to hang on just a bit longer. To keep just a bit more of _this_ David, who isn’t his to keep. 

He lets go, and leans back enough to gaze at David, who always gets a touch awkward at this point. It’s not regret, Michael’s reasonably sure of that, and it’s not that he’s uncomfortable with this much vulnerability, exactly, or even this much vulnerability in front of Michael. More a generalized worry, possibly about the lack of an established etiquette for situations like these. David likes to be a gentleman, and deeply needs for no one ever to think he’s rude. He half looks like he might want to kiss Michael, just because it would be the polite thing to do. 

But he’s not that foolhardy; neither of them is. Instead, he presses a soft kiss into Michael’s shoulder, and then reaches over to offer him the make-up wipes. Very useful for a quick clean-up, those. 

The wipes go in the bin, the clothes come back on. Their own clothes, now. This should probably be the most uncomfortable part, but it isn’t. There’s not much they can say, but silence rests lightly on them. This is them, getting back to normal. 

“You might want to double-check your approach there,” David grins when Michael gets tangled trying to pull his sweater on back to front, and they both end up snorting with laughter. It feels good. 

Michael feels sated, and pleasantly languid, and content to stay in this moment forever. But life never works that way, and before long, David is fully dressed, ready to leave, while Michael is still searching for his socks. David finds one behind the costume rack and presents it to him with an elaborate gesture and a smile that might easily be described as fond, and if this were anything other than it is, Michael would laugh and kiss him. But it isn’t, and so he grins and thanks him and they say their have-a-good-night-see-you-tomorrows. And then David is gone.

Michael spots his other sock underneath the cot, sits down heavily to pull it on, and tries not to feel like something else is missing.

Still. Maybe one of these days… Maybe one of these days, he will actually kiss David. Just to see what happens. 


End file.
